The Premature Sentence
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Watson gathers data on the horrors of premature burial, firsthand. Holmes must sleuth him out before the experience becomes stale. Expansion of drabble 107 in "Peek through a Gaslit Window," as requested. Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

***Clicks the clicky button to post story***

***Watson glares darkly***

***wince* It's not my fault! They wanted it! They asked for it in 25 reviews!**

***Watson stalks away, muttering about headache powders* **

***Sigh* He'll be back. But you all better like this. You know he's gonna make me suffer for it. **

**Here you are, as stated in drabble 108 of "Peek through a Gaslit Window"**

**Warning to all claustrophobes. Watson angst ahoy.**

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Part 1: In which a narrow house is occupied.

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"Come on, come on…easy now. Look here 'Umphrey. 'Ee's awake."

A large, jocular face appears, covered in bristles, ears, nose and cheeks chaffed red by the wind. But most noticeable are the piggish eyes, small and emotionless, animal.

He struggles harder, feels hands and ropes confining him.

"More's the pity for 'im. Stay still." A booted foot digs painfully into his side, probably bruising his ribs.

…or were they already bruised?

If so, how did they get that way?

Where is he?

What is going on?

He is assaulted by his surroundings, unable to decipher direction or color or sensation. His head pounds in time with his heart…or is it just the veins in his head? Odd thing is he can't feel as much as he should. His hands seem to be disembodied, and his legs replaced by useless cords of wood. What he can feel is cold and sore. Stiffened muscles protest when he tries to move, to lift his head, to see where he is…

"Stay still." The empty voice to match the empty eyes, no trace of anger or apprehension, just the resignation of a normal laboring man. This time the boot is on his forehead, pressing him down, leaving a streak of grime and grit in its wake…as though he's no more than a loose packing crate.

It is this utter lack of regard that truly alarms him, more than the feel of rough twine lashing his wrists, or his confused state. There is no humanity in the empty-man's actions; he is of no value to them as a living, thinking individual.

So what do they want him for?

_It seems to me a more careful examination of your predicament would yield better results, my Dear Watson. _

The cynical voice is so clear that for a moment he almost believes he will turn his head and see the accompanying sardonic twist of the thin lips, the brows furrowed in a bizarre mix of humor and thoughtfulness.

But no, of co

urse, he is alone. Lying quite helpless on some rough wood surface, bound hand, and probably foot, with at least two hostile individuals, one who views him as an object of mild curiosity, the other with so callous a manner he shouldn't be trusted with a dog let alone a man.

His head pounds again, sharper this time, driving white spikes of pain into his skull, behind his eyes. He screws them closed and a whimper escapes him, pathetically weak, but luckily his captor's don't bother to notice.

_Now, now, Watson, this is not the time for sentiment. You can uphold empirical notions of British reserve later; use your brain, sir!"_

Perhaps he is hallucinating, or he has just spent too much time in Homes' company lately. Either way the voice is as unhelpful as it is comforting. How can he use his brain when its' a bruised pulp in his battered head?

"I wish they'd get here already." The first man says, he shivers in the air and two heavy feet stamp near Watson's legs.

The percussion aggravates his head, but he hears it echo hollowly through the wood under his ear. He is lying in a wagon bed, roughly made…obviously a practical conveyance used for honest work.

Or in this case not so honest.

"They'll come," Says the empty man assuredly.

The younger one sighs, and continues on in his curiosity.

"This ain't no tough, 'Umphrey."

"You only need to look at 'im to see tha', boy."

"But he ain't no toff neither."

"Well that's good then, isn' it? No one important will go missin' 'im."

He listens with growing alarm, to the men converse over his head…as though he isn't even really there. _Think_, hisses the voice in his ear, _Think!_

He can't move for cold and the bindings. But his mouth is free, dry and cured as tobacco, but free. He swallows his pride and some saliva and opens his mouth to shout for help.

It hurts his throat abominably, burns as though he's swallowed untreated lemon juice, but his voice rings in the still air quite discernable, and he is proud of himself.

Until the ring of it dies away, unheeded.

He is almost shocked when the situation continues, unchanged, then a wave of cold as he realizes why they didn't bother to gag him in the first place. Why silence a scream when there is no one to hear it?

"No one to 'ear 'im. No one to miss 'im…poor blighter. But like I said 'Umph. He's not a toff, but his stuff's still good. Seem's a shame to waste it."

"That wasn't a part of the job, boy." The empty man growls, "Enterprisin' like that gets you into trouble."

"Who's gonna miss it? 'Ee don't need it no more."

A hand is rummaging with his coat…fingering the material. Probably his pockets are already empty.

"Shame on you, boy. 'Ee ain't even cold in his grave and you already want to rob 'im."

"And look at these boots!"

A laugh follows, but it is emotionless as everything else about the empty man. The wagon bed creaks and rocks as someone kneels beside him. Then another pair of hands are on arms.

"I'll 'ave the boots, boy. You can take the rest."

"But the boots is the best!"

"I'll take it all if you like."

"No, no, c'mere and 'old his legs…I'll get the boots for ya."

He has only been witness to this kind of thievery once, in Afghanistan, when water and supplies were in short, the living had often taken anything useful from their fallen comrades. Not under his watch, not at the start, but when things grew desperate as they fled from Maiwand he hadn't been in any state to object, even if he would have.

Now he is being picked clean, while still alive and conscious, on his home turf. It is so outrageous, and the thoughts of what he survived in Afghanistan so fortifying, that he finds the strength to fight back.

As one boot is tugged roughly from his foot, the other is aimed at the still blurry face of the thief taking them. It catches him on the chin and he falls back with a yowl.

The empty man laughs, "Poor blighter is it? Looks like 'Ee's still got some fight in 'im Jeb."

The young man gets to his feet, wiping his hand across the blood streaking down his face. "I'll teach 'Im a lesson."

The empty man makes no move to intervene. Watson tries to shift away as the thief kneels down, but one of the knees comes down on his ribs, he bucks, and then a fist slams into his stomach.

He chokes as his breath escapes in a whoosh, then wheezes to recover it. The fist returns, harder as it's applied to muscle and bone, a second time, a third. It smashes into his jaw, across his face as the thief warms to his theme. His head is want to explode and he yelps.

"Right…tha's enough. Lets get on with it or they'll be back 'afore we get a chance."

The thief it breathing heavily, "Yeah, alrigh'"

They attack his boots again and he stays down, still gasping painfully for breath. The beating was mild by most standards…but its put an edge on his already weakened condition.

They take his boots, and the socks idly go with them. Then they untie his hands, strip away his coat, waistcoat and after some debate his shirt. "Just look at the stitches o' tha'!". In the end he is mildly surprised they leave him his trousers, but does not question his good fortune as the thief kneels on his bare back and fastens his hands again.

Just as the last knot is tied he catches the sound of men tramping toward them, wading through tall grass.

"S'bout time you got here!" the thief growls, giving Watson's head a shove as he gets to his feet.

"Its not like we can go to the corner shop and pick these up, Jeb. Get down here and help would'ya?"

The wagon jolts and he's left shivering alone in the cold air. He risks opening his eyes again. The sky is black save for whatever determined stars can poke their way through, and several penetrating treetops, larches and maybe some yews, large and obviously old. They cannot be in one of the newer parks then…

That is if they are still in London at all.

"Alrigh' we're ready."

Hands on his trousers, pulling him to the edge of the cart, his feet dangle in empty air, then wet grass tickles his feet. The blood rushes from his head when he finally stands, the grass is up to his knees, only the hands on either arm keep him upright.

He closes his eyes in an attempt to control the vertigo, and then opens them.

There is a stone at his feet, unusually high, for he can see it clearly even with the grass. It is old, but not worn smooth, it is crumbling.

And just to the left…there is another…

No.

His pudding of a brain puts it together before he fully understands.

No, no, no!

He is shouting it without deciding to, he is struggling wildly against their grips, lashing out with his feet.

"No!"

It is like something from a gothic novel, a work of Byron or Poe, or even a well-timed dramatic twist in one of his own accounts. Stones stretch in semi-orderly rows as far as the eye can see, and not five feet away is a freshly turned mound of earth, beside a gaping hole.

"Dear God! No! Please!"

"I thought you said he was out cold!"

"Shut him up!"

Anger surges at their words, desperation at his predicament. They are wrestling him towards a box, a box where he will be shut away and placed in that ugly wound in the earth. Shut away in the darkness.

He twists violently enough that their hands slip, but his legs are too shaky and his feet numbed from the cold. He stumbles and they yank him up by the arms, sending rivets of pain through his shoulders.

He yells out of pain and fury and fear, he kicks and bites. He snarls when someone stuffs a piece of cloth in his mouth.

Too soon his toes touch rough wood, he is yanked around and his legs kicked from under him, forced back into the box, head knocking against the hard surface behind. He shouts against the gag, catches one last glimpse of sky before it is cut off by the rough lid.

It slides into place with a dull snap, and he is swallowed by darkness. Dank earth and raw pine fill his nostrils, he spits out the gag and tries not to pant in the close air.

The cheap box shudders as the corners are pounded down, hammer ringing dully on nails.

Shutting him away in the dark.

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***Whimper*You know, I can't even gloat over this cliffie. I need something to cuddle with but I doubt the Doctor will oblige. **

***looks thoughtfully at Holmes***

***detective scoots out of reach***

**Rats! Moar coming…**


	2. Chapter 2

**I woke up this morning Watson, my Muse, and Holmes all shouting in my ear. So I have this to post. Forgive my lateness, please.**

**Here's the thing though, this isn't the end.  
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**The third installment will be up tonight. Watch for it.**

***posts***

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Part 2: In which there is a break-in.

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Simon Dempsey is not a man of feeling. Known for a cool head and colder heart, he is available for hire for all sorts of undesirable work. The Fish, they call him, because he'll flop any which way the gold is and not feel anything afterwards. He hasn't felt anything since his father beat it out of him daily. Not since he took a knife to the old man's throat.

Maybe that is why he is able to sit coolly slurping a pint of beer just a short while after he's helped to bury alive a younger man with fair hair, and warm blue eyes. He doesn't think about how the young man must be screaming under the earth as the cool drink passes his lips; how the desperate pleas go unheard into the dark cool dirt and the surrounding dead, how the air must be getting closer and hotter, how the blue is swallowed by black pupils.

It doesn't cross his mind. He rests his stained elbows on the knobby table-top, gathering more stains from spilt beer and spittle, he grips the cool mug carelessly in his gnarled hand and sips his beer slowly while men sing and cavort around him, carefully skirting him. His feet rest in the boots of the young man, a loose fit, and he doesn't feel it—completely unaware that the boots will be the end of him.

A hand grips his shoulder and he sets down his drink, turns on his stool to see a toff. Nice clothes, clean chin, watch chain with a sovereign hanging from it like its not good money. The man even has a topper in hand, but his other is clamped on Dempsey's filthy shirt like it doesn't mind the stale sweat one bit.

He looks at the man's face, but the man's eyes have already left his own face. They are traveling down his collar, his shirt, his hands, his trousers, his knees. Dempsey can feel the eyes as they flit to and fro over him, like he's never felt anything before, like he's suddenly made of gold and the man is looking to see his value, or for a flaw.

Then the eyes stop their restless search and settle on his shoes.

They stay there for a good minute. They stay so long that Dempsey's feet become heavy and uncomfortable, he can't hear the noise round him anymore, can't see anything but the man, and the fellow hovering at his shoulder, a cheeky drink-red face and green eyes, a scoundrel by the name of Johnson.

Johnson is standing with his arms folded across his chest, which means business, but it's his face that worries Dempsey.

There's pity on his face.

He gasps as the toff suddenly raises his eyes from the shoes. The toff's face is hard, white as marble except for the splotchy bits that show blood is flowing hard and fast. The eyes cut into Dempsey's face and he flinches, raising his hands.

For the first time since he can remember, Dempsey is afraid, because he knows without a doubt this man wants to kill him as slowly and painfully as possible.

"Don't think you can run," The toff says in a soft way, "don't think it for a minute. I've been following your footprints for two miles, I could follow them with half a brain and one good eye across the whole of London. It does not _matter_ how long and fast you try to run. I will find you again; would you like to know how?"

He stays quiet, like a rabbit that knows a squeak will probably alert the hound into biting its head off.

"Your boots are distinctive," the toff goes on, his eyes are flitting again, down to his trousers, up to his hands.

"They're covered in dirt, as are your hands and the knees of your trousers…" the toff reaches up, plucks something from his pocket and twirls it like a feather in his fingers.

Only it isn't anything as innocent as a feather, it's a nail, and the toff stares at it long and hard while all the red splotches fade from his face.

The toff glares, and he knows, and suddenly Dempsey's as guilty as if he were in the dock already.

"You're the devil!" he chokes, shying from this man who seems to see everything, like he was watching all along.

Johnson steps up from behind to take his other arm, the pity clearly written on his face.

"Worse. He's Sherlock Holmes."

And the name feels like the final blow to a nail in a coffin lid.

Five minutes to find a cab, ten minutes to travel to the cemetery, another six to find the right plot.

It's not all that hard to find, a great black scar of earth in a field of green grass and trees, but by the time they reach it, Holmes is ready to start clawing at the dirt with his bare hands.

It took him twenty minutes to miss Watson long enough to become worried, another eighteen to find Johnson, twenty five to follow Watson's boot prints two miles to the pub

In conclusion it is too long. It's just too blasted long! They need to get him out, and now.

Holmes rips up one of the spades stuck nearby into the earth; he thrusts it at Dempsey because he knows there is no man so motivated as a condemned one.

"Dig," he takes the other for himself and starts to tear into the ground. Dempsey follows his example willingly. It becomes a rhythm, as these things do. The soft plough of the dull blades sluicing the loose earth, followed by the gravely thump of the dumping.

It starts fast, and doesn't slow, not even when Dempsey is gasping and trembling, and sweat is pouring off both men. It's ludicrous to think of slowing, because each shovelful adds to the growing pile of dirt, large, black, moist, clinging to the shovel and his hands and his face, suffocating.

And there is just so much of it! Holmes has never properly considered the sheer volume of earth it takes to fill a whole this size.

He must move all of it, and quickly, because each shovelful takes seven seconds, and even though he's lost track of time there are a lot of shovelfuls in the pile.

Dempsey stops, gasping and choking for breath. Holmes angrily shoves him aside and digs faster, seven second shovelfuls become four seconds, and the dirt is flung wildly over his head to land wherever on the grass.

Johnson pulls Dempsey out of the hole, considers taking his place and realizes that there is no room. There is only the blur of earth flying out of the black hole, where the blackened detective digs and scrapes.

Then his shovel stops. The force of his blow jars through his hands as the blade strikes something unyielding, he is gasping himself, shaking with the exertion, but he looks up at Johnson with fervent eyes that fairly pop out of his filthy face, and Johnson (who has dug up a plot or two in his own day for good reasons) nods.

Then he is scraping the spade across the surface, uncovering the flat planks of wood that look like an uncovered rib except they're as filthy as he is. He scrapes and scrapes until he can see a crack that's split its way through the dirt and wood. He flings aside the shovel that's become a part of his hands taking some skin with it. He falls to his knees, puts his mouth to the crack, and does not even notice how unsteady and tight his voice has become.

"Watson! Watson!"

And then he stops, pauses for more than a breath since he set out over an hour ago, crouches and waits like a man at a cliffside.

Movement. He senses it more than hears it, a slight vibration against the lid that jars through his chest and sets his heart to pumping again. It is followed by a soft, incoherent sound, a confused murmur, or a whimper.

He clenches his hands, lets his head fall against the wood as he closes his eyes."Merciful God," he sobs, gasps for breath. Then sits up again, reaches for the spade and fits it in the crack.

It does not take much, the cheap pine is already buckled from the pressure of the earth, one sure twist of Holmes' inconsiderable weight on the handle and the crack tears open with an unearthly banshee shriek.

It is followed by another sound, a hoarse shout, a wail that lifts the hairs on Johnson's neck. Holmes is frozen with the shovel in his hands as the coffin comes to life beneath him, shuddering as its occupant begins to thrash and kick, throwing his weight against what remains of the lid.

Holmes flings the shovel aside again, tears the broken section of lid away with his hands and reaches down inside to where far too much earth has leaked. It is warm, like the bowels of Hell, and his fingers find slick, mud covered flesh that jerks away from his grasp.

"Watson," he calls rather hoarsely himself, overjoyed at the feel of living warmth beneath his fingers. His voice and a hand on the shoulder is all it will take to calm his friend he knows from experience.

Then, belatedly, he realizes that his fingers are touching an ankle…not a shoulder.

The sadists buried him backwards, heaven knew why…but it meant several more minutes of delay, which only set the anger flowing harder through the detective. It is all he can do not to put the shovel to good use against Dempsey while he listens to Watson's panic.

Panic at hearing the shovels and the voice of his dear, imperious friend demanding his freedom, at feeling cool air near his feet…and still lying trapped with solid pine three inches from his nose, and dirt close about his face.

Watson wails and shoves against the wood, pushing with his shoulder, gasping frantically now that there is a supply of air. Hours of darkness and pressure finally overtake him, he can feel the ties on his wrists, the wood scraping against his bare back, the particles of dirt in his ears and nose and mouth. And he must take it a bit longer.

Holmes grips his ankle, tears his arm out of the hole and reaches for the shovel again. There are nearly two inches of earth still on top of the other half of the coffin lid and it takes a moment to scrape it away to reveal the wood and another web of cracks. The wood shudders again as Watson can no longer control his struggles.

No shriek this time, a pop, like a fist going through corkboard.

The whole top half of the lid sections, splinters, comes away in pieces in Holmes' clawing hands.

And a pair of hazel eyes are blinking up at him out of the dust.

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**I was literally shaking after I wrote this. **

**Its like Holmes had his hand over mine on the pen. I think he's angry at me for burying Watson. **


	3. Chapter 3

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**I was really surprised and pleased when so many of you commented on the blue/hazel eye dilema. What a sharp lot of reviewers I have! Virtual shillings for all of you! **

**But it was deliberate, m'dears. I have always described Watson's eyes as hazel, but with a lot of blue coloring in them (see Jude Law and David Burke).**

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Part 3: In which reason is restored.

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Familiar hazel eyes, made bluer by constricting blood vessels, by Watson's fear. In the light of Johnson's lantern they stand out with sapphirine clarity and it is all Holmes can do not to whoop like an American Indian at the sight of them.

It is rather like the sudden release from a nightmare. The barrier against which they helplessly struggled is gone, and here is Watson before him, filthy, dark as pitch from sweat and dirt, gasping limply for air. His eyes travel dazedly about the ragged hole, to the sky above him and finally to Holmes' face.

And the silent appeal is enough for Holmes. He is practically kneeling in the coffin now, the remains of the lid are scattered about them. He bends down the rest of the way, slips an arm beneath Watson's shoulders and lift's him until his friend's head is resting against his collar.

Watson's arms are still fastened behind his back, an examination of the ropes shows they are also slick with mud and tighter for all the Doctor's struggles, nearly impossible to untie.

"Johnson! Your penknife, please."

It lands with a heavy thud beside his leg. Holmes snatches it up, snaps it open, and juggling his friend in one arm, leans over to slice neatly through the ropes.

He startles a little when Watson, moving with sore, slowness, wraps his arms around the detective to grasp at the back of his coat. He grips back, one hand curled around Watson's shoulder, the other twined in his dirt-encrusted hair of all things.

"All right, old chap," he murmurs, absently dropping the knife, "You're all right now…You're not hurt are you?" he pulls back to look at his friend's face, worried anew by this thought. "You're not hurt?"

Watson's eyes are tightly closed; he is making an effort to control his breathing, which still comes in noisy, uneven shudders. He shakes his head.

"Good," Holmes says, his hands clench and he pulls the Doctor tighter against his shoulder growling. "Come, let's get you out of this hole. Up you come," he rises, taking Watson with him, steadying him when his legs start to shake.

"Gently," He reassures shifting one arm around his friend's bare waist to support him, the other still locked around his shoulders. In this way they shuffle to the edge of the hole, Holmes looks past the glare of the lantern.

"Johnson,"

Ready hands come down, gripping under Watson's armpits. Holmes does not miss the brief look of uncertainty, eyes wide and white with renewed fear, before he bends double to grip his friend around the knees.

"Hup!"

He lifts, while Johnson hauls, and Watson is free, scrambling up the side to disappear over the edge. An odd start of apprehension fills the detective when the Doctor leaves his sight. But it is gone when Johnson grips his hand next and pulls him up.

Being in the hole, even for that short a time, is unnerving. He is glad when he can breathe in the cool, sweet air again.

But Watson…how long has he been down there? An hour? Two hours? Imprisoned in that dark rotting place—

It does not bear thinking about. He cannot, really, cannot _begin_ to comprehend, his mind cringes at the prospect and rolls his growing horror into a little ball and tucks it away in one of the darker corners of his skull. There are other things that require his attention and he is glad he is not left along to poke at the fear in morbid curiosity.

His legs clear the top of the would-be grave and he sits, a little rubbery after his exertions.

"You all right, Gov?"

Holmes snorts, what a ridiculous thing to say in the face of what's happened. "Of course I'm allright, I'm not the one—" He cuts off, realizes that Watson is not hovering at his elbow, where he should be.

He jerks around to look, and is reassured by the lump crouched not a foot from him.

Watson has folded over, as though the open space is suddenly too much for him after the dark. The trampled down grass creates a thick mat beneath him, and his face is buried in it. His fingers, white where the grime has washed away, are locked in the long strands.

"Watson…" he reaches out towards his friend, rests a hand on a particularly tense shoulder.

He pulls back at once, as though Watson is a coal oven.

The strands of wet grass squeak as the Doctor tightens his grip. A muffled sound emerges, his shoulders are shaking, trembling convulsively. His face is pressed into the grass, hidden from view.

Purposefully hidden, and Holmes, being an English gentleman by birth and teaching, aloof by nature, and protectorate of his friend by choice…hasn't the foggiest idea what he is meant to do.

It is with relief that he hears a proverbial cricket break the silence.

"Weed."

The word, the insult, is muttered, under-the-breath. But in the silence of the graveyard it is quite clear.

Holmes stiffens, turns to Dempsey, who is sitting where he collapsed to catch his breath. Dark and sulky, his eyes are fixed resentfully on Watson, his failed job. His lips are curled lightly in disgust.

"What did you say?"

The eyes flicker to him, still smoldering. It must be that Dempsey can sense the sudden adrenaline rushing the detective's veins because he freezes like a rabbit in the brush.

It is unclear who moves first, but Dempsey is suddenly stumbling over graves in his attempt to flee, and Holmes Is haring down on him.

He does not make it four yards.

Holmes tackles him about the knees and they both fall forward against a crumbling, marble monument dedicated to a long-forgotten dignitary. Dempsey gasps, turns onto his stomach trying to crawl away, to escape. But his hands are clawing uselessly in the grass and dirt, Holmes already has him. He's dragged back in the unyielding iron grip and turns to defend himself against a face smoldering with fury.

He swings at the face and his hand is knocked aside, something crashes into his jaw, knocking his head back, he growls and shoves, but the hands holding him are tight, quivering in their need to crush him. He is struck again in the face, repeatedly to his jaw, He flails his hands against the detectives, twists his wrists, but the torrent of blows to his face is distracting, finally his nose cracks in a flash of pain and nausea and he raises his arms with a grunt.

Holmes flings him aside in disgust at the noise, needing to be away from the villain. The man catches up against a tree, cringing. He tries to use it to get to his feet, and Holmes feels another flash of anger that the man is still healthy, still capable, while Watson is not.

He surges to his feet, grips the man by the collar and drags him upright to smash a fist into his ribs.

Dempsey staggers and he lets him. Let the man try to stand until he can't any longer. Holmes follows him knocking him right, and left.

A fist lands on his left ear and he drives a numbing blow into Dempsey's right arm for the retaliation. He hits the man's swelling eye, catches the left arm that comes at his diaphragm, and twists it in an oriental move that sends Dempsey gasping to his knees.

A boot to the side and the shoulder-blades sends Dempsey to the ground again. Holmes follows, unrelenting,

"Gov! Mr. Holmes!"

He feels Johnson's hand on his shoulder, and it is a distraction. He slaps it savagely away before concentrating on Dempsey again.

"Holmes!"

It is like being underwater. He cannot strike fast or hard enough, his arms are weak, useless.

"Holmes! Stop it! Stop it!"

There is another hand, this time in his collar, pulling him back. He turns with a snarl, fist upraised…

…and drops it in horror at the blackened face before him.

He is shaken, like a frantic, disobedient child, but the reprimanding voice isn't any calmer than he.

"Holmes, stop it! For goodness' sake!

He stops and lets himself be shaken. The quivering hands remain twisted in his collar, and he listens to the still-haggard breathing of his friend. Slowly it dawns on him that his own breath is an exhausted pant, and that his muscles are cramping.

Watson is watching his eyes, as though to make certain the beast has receded, then he leans tiredly forward, until his forehead rests against Holmes' shoulder.

Dempsey whimpers and shifts behind them, more battered than bruised, and Watson jerks his head up to glare venom at the man.

He would like to hurt him too, Holmes realizes, but he has too much conscience remaining to stand by and see him severely beaten.

That does not mean he has to remain in the man's presence.

"Come," Holmes slips an arm beneath Watson's, grips the hands locked in his collar and levers him to his feet. He pulls him away from the filth, to a sandstone block and they both fold to the ground, while Johnson hovers.

He forgot to bring his revolver again, but it is already in his coat pocket, placed there by a cautious Watson before heading off on his own, leaving Holmes unprotected. He removes it, and as an afterthought shrugs out of the coat as well. Watson is clothed in nothing but his trousers, and the cool air is only getting colder as the night progresses.

He slings the heavy wool over his friend's shoulders before turning to Johnson.

"Find one of the boys. Five of them are out tonight, they'll respond to the usual signal. Send them to Lestrade with a message; we have some scum for him to gather. Then come back here and watch over this."

Johnson nods and knuckles his bowler.

"Thank you, my friend."

A hard pat on the shoulder is his response from the older man. Johnson's feet carry him away at a swift trot, crashing through the wet grass.

He turns the gun on Dempsey, but the beating has been effective. The man sits against the marble headstone with his bloody face between his hands, moaning pitifully as he fingers his nose.

Watson shivers, and pulls the coat around him like a too small cloak, his shoulders being too broad for it. He is already leaning against the detective, breathing evenly now, but with his head buried in the pillow of his arms.

If Holmes slings an arm around his shoulders to feel the rise and fall of each breath it is nothing to be laughed at.

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**So this chapter was late as well, but for your patience you're going to get ANOTHER chapter after this one! Bonus chapter, filled with flangst, holmes and watson downtime, and maybe even a little violin if you're all good. Holmes rather insisted on it actually. Boy am I getting punished for this one. **


	4. Chapter 4

**This was harder to do than I thought it would be, which is one of the reason's it is so late. **

**Many thanks to Pro-prodigy for previewing, and KCS for her advice in all areas Holmes and Watson. **

**And I hope you're satisfied Mr. Holmes. I've learnt my lesson. Never casually toss Boswells into open graves. **

**Mostly thanks to all of you guys. Thank you for all the wonderul reviews, and for sticking with it. I don't deserve any of you.**

* * *

Part 4: In which there is lassitude.

* * *

Watson is as tense as a one of Holmes' bowstrings. He has not been able to relax since he was locked in _there._ His insides are twisted and taut, and he knows if he speaks his quivering vocal chords will make a pitiful sound rather like that of the tortured Stradivarius.

So he says nothing, even though it leaves a haunting silence. He does not care. It is enough that he can see the care etched into the dirt on his friend's face, that he is not alone. It is enough that he can stand upright and move freely.

Enough that he can see the sky and breathe its cool expanse again.

He sits quietly as Lestrade returns with a half a dozen men and the graveyard is filled with lights and activity and shouted orders. He watches in amazement as the hole and pile of dirt are scrutinized and exclaimed over. Only a short while ago they were everything to him, they separated him from the world and banished him to inexistence.

Now it is a hole and some dirt and the constables scramble freely into and out of it without any hindrance.

"Come, Watson."

He is already trying to stand when the hand takes his elbow. He does not need to look to know. Holmes' hands are unmistakable, and they are often what spoil his disguises, being too long or nervous.

Shinwell Johnson, Holmes' man, is on his other side, offering comfort in his gruff estuary as he takes Watson's arm in his fat hands. "All right lad, it's over now. Follow Mr. Holmes here."

They lever him up between them and he walks shakily away through the trees and the overgrown grass, and the graves that somehow don't seem so much silent as sullenly resigned at his departure.

Things blur together after that. He is in a cab, still close by Holmes' side, still barefoot, still wrapped in his coat. Then without seeming to leave the cab they are inside Lestrade's office. The official and the unofficial are arguing and Johnson is gone. One of Lestrade's PC's is by his side, laying a blanket across his shoulders, offering him a mug of lukewarm coffee that he knows he won't be able to stomach so he shakes his head burrowing down into the blanket.

Then the room is dimmer, and he is lying on his side on the worn couch he was previously sitting on. Holmes is whispering in his ear about Lestrade and Johnson, and picking up the trail while it is still fresh.

"Dr. Terrance is already in custody, Watson." Holmes says lowly, naming the man responsible for the whole mess, the man who caught Watson peering at his suspicious records in hospital. It all makes sense now. How better to get rid of a witness than as just another corpse?

"I will be back, my dear fellow. PC Wilkins will not leave you." the detective nods at a sergeant seated at Lestrade's desk. "Bradstreet is here overseeing the home front. You will be safe…do you understand?"

He cannot recall seeing Holmes so white or drawn for some time, even beneath the mud. He really will have to talk to Mrs. Hudson about cooking more of his favorite meals this week.

He closes his eyes because they are still heavy, and promise more sleep. He could not dredge his body fully out of slumber if he wanted to. And there is nothing to worry about in his sleep. It will take him away, and that is all he wants.

He cannot remember Holmes' return, or consenting to tea, only that he is frightfully cold and warming tea makes sense. Perhaps he asked for it.

Either way both tea and Holmes appear in his vision, and he props himself up so he can take the steaming cup from his friend.

The tea washes the dirt from the inside of his mouth. He swallows the whole concoction impulsively and suddenly he is choking on mud.

Brackish mud coating his throat, grinding between his teeth, it is filling him, forcing its way down his throat and he coughs and retches on it.

It is the earth again, piles and piles of it crushing him, leaking in between the cracks, filling his narrow little world, solid darkness that strangles him. It is worse than the rough hands, harsh words and kicks to his ribs. He cannot fight against this sort of darkness and filth. It will bury him and rot him from the inside out until he is a worm-filled corpse. Just like the other miles and miles of worm-filled corpses lying silently in the horrible earth.

He screams because it is the only thing left he can do. When the blackest point is reached even brave men like John Watson can scream. He cries out hoarsely and struggles blindly in the darkness. Striking out at bony groping hands that try to drag him back under.

"Watson!"

He is kneeling on cold tile but the earth has not left him, he can feel it on his skin and in his hair, burning in his eyes and coating his throat. Ye gods it is through and through him.

He is retching again, crouching on his hands and knees as his body rebels in ways it has not since his last fierce illness in whatever distant life he had before. It decides his stomach is just too filthy to keep and tries to force it up his throat. He coughs and heaves and shakes with the force of it, but only more dirt comes. Perhaps he already is dirt, rotted from the inside out, dirt and worms and cloying decay.

And the bony hands are still there, gripping his shoulders painfully. His mind thinks of corpses and rattling skeletons with loose jaws and teeth. He cries out again, lashing his fist against the thing as his skin crawls.

The grip tightens around him like a vice, trapping him, suffocating him.

"_Watson!"_

He is being shaken, perhaps an earthquake?

"Mr. Holmes?"

"_Be quiet, Lestrade!"_

Slowly he realizes that the world is not shaking. Rather he is shaking it.

He sees lights in a dim office. And pale frightened faces hovering, denizens of a strange underground world, like one of M. Verne's fantastical novels?

The face nearest him is filthy, as though it has crawled through miles of dirt to pull him out.

He realizes that is exactly the truth. The man's arms are locked round him and he is about to strangle the poor fellow with a tight grip on his collar, but the man does not pull away.

The man sees him watching and recites, "Do you know me?"

His mind is blown. Quite unable to understand more than embarrassment at the spectacle he has made of himself, and there is not enough of that to care.

But his body realizes instinctively that he is safe.

He pushes away, sick and shaking and Holmes lets him. When he starts to crawl back onto to the couch the detective helps him onto it.

"Thank you." he croaks, or something to that effect. A blanket is pulled up and around him and that is the end of it.

* * *

"Holmes…"

Holmes looks up, much relieved at this sign of life from his companion. Watson has been silent since his outbreak of nerves earlier that night some hours ago.

The detective is seated uncomfortably, his chair leaning back against Lestrade's desk, his feet resting beside Watson on the couch. He lowers them to the ground and straightens now.

"Yes…my dear, Watson?"

The Doctor raises his head and squints in the dim light of the single oil lamp on Lestrade's desk, eyelids flickering.

"How are you feeling?" Holmes presses, impatient as always and doubly so after a long, dull vigil.

Watson stares at his face for a few moments as though seeing him clearly for the first time. Then he looks down at his own body covered with the rough wool blanket.

"Like I'm not in a state to be in public."

He looks back to Holmes, as though for signs of disapproval. At once the detective leans forward in mock concern.

"Yes…your moustache could do with a good trimming, dear boy. You shouldn't be allowed one if you neglect it so."

It works. Watson laughs, the dim office and the hushed solemnity of Scotland Yard is broken by the warm chuckle.

It dies too quickly however and Holmes knows he is only applying sticking plaster to an open wound

What would Watson do…if he were not the invalid? Watson fixes everything, and it is not too hard to follow his methods. Sleep, which has been achieved. Food, after the episode with the tea he cannot see Watson stomaching anything for a while. So what is the remedy for this ill?

He studies his poor friend for a moment; bowed shoulders, lacerated wrists and bruised face, all of them crusted in dirt…

…and the answer comes to him.

"Do you feel well enough for a short journey?"

"Baker Street?" Watson asks with a hint of relief.

"It is…" he checks his watch, "a quarter past six, and I do believe Lestrade would like to have his office returned to him before seven."

Watson, stalwart fellow, is already sitting upward, lowering his feet to the floor. He pulls them back at the touch of the cold tile, they are still bare.

Holmes turns to the brown paper parcel on Lestrade's desk. Mrs. Hudson has seen fit to send not only fresh-laundered clothes, but food and medical supplies. Invaluable woman!

He removes a pair of carpet slippers from the stash and bending, slides them onto Watson's feet.

"Thank you," Watson puts aside the blanket and pulls Holmes' coat back round his shoulders. They rise together and when it is evident Watson cannot support himself the detective slips easily under his arm.

They take a straggling cab that is hanging about the yard, and leave the sleepy inspectors behind.

* * *

"Holmes, this is not Baker Street."

Watson, who had remitted from speaking for the duration of the cab ride, stirs when it stops and Holmes alights, depriving him of his shoulder/pillow.

His voice is still sore and hoarse from dehydration and over activity (what sort of activity Holmes does not like to imagine). The sound of it quiet and unsteady in the cold morning air is ten times worse.

"I know." He takes Watson's arm as the Doctor hobbles down to join him. Reclaimed stick held tightly in his hand.

"You know. Then I assume we're here on purpose." Watson deigns to scowl at the building in question and falls silent. Not in dread or puzzlement, but bemusement at his friend's surprisingly thoughtful attentions.

Holmes pays the cabbie and takes Watson's arm again, Mrs. Hudson's parcel under the other. They make their slow, steady way, the sound of their feet echoing in the empty street, and disappear into number 25 Northumberland Avenue.

They have been here many times; it is one of their retreats from the stressful, dangerous life presented by criminal investigation. The mosaic marble floor beneath his slippers is smooth, solid and reassuring. The faint echoes coming down the hall from the two-story cooling room is soothing. But it is not without some apprehension that he follows Holmes inside. Not only does he look worse than a penniless tramp in carpet slippers, ruined trousers, and covered head to toe in dirt (more like an escapee from a mental institution), but he has never seen the place so empty before.

It is evidently before business hours, a manservant can be seen arranging towels in a corner, and behind the cash desk a man is arranging papers, accounts and billets. Holmes, who looks only a fraction more respectable than Watson, strides up to him.

"Mr. Price."

The gentleman, a fellow of maybe twenty seven years, and slicked blond hair looks up promptly. It is evident why he has been hired for his position; his clean-shaven face is pleasant and unobtrusive. There is no way to be offended or irritated by it.

The dismay in his eyes is quickly replaced by professionalism.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Nevill told me to expect you and your companion. Everything is prepared, despite the unexpectedness of your request. "

'It does not look as though it was unexpected', Watson muses, glancing about at the immaculate floors shining in the quiet orderly atmosphere.

"I will be here should you require anything, the majority of our staff have not arrived, and those that have are rather occupied." Mr. Price is the only sign that the days' schedule has been fussed, and he takes it in stride with a nod of the head and a pleasant smile.

Holmes leads him past the desk down the familiar path to the boot room. He sits while Holmes attacks his mud-clotted laces.

"You did not tell me you knew the proprietor," he remarks quietly.

Holmes looks up with a smile. "I had occasion to solve the disappearance of an expensive tiepin that belonged to one of his more distinguished clients. This was not too difficult a favor to attain, especially since we are before the crowds."

He is being deliberately obtuse, a comforting, familiar attitude for his friend; much better than the solicitous hovering of anyone else. It is not ignored, the horrible thing that has happened to him, that is why they are here. But neither is it being poked and prodded and smoothed over until he must scream from it.

Watson slides his feet out of the slippers, follows Holmes (who is still cursing at his boots), to the dressing room. Mrs. Hudson's parcel is stashed, and their late lamented clothing disposed of. By the time Watson wraps a towel around his middle and they make their way downstairs to the heated rooms, He is able to speak more readily.

Not of important things, but of nonsensical things, pool games and boxing matches, the latest Guilbert and Sullivan's. Things that are easy to concentrate on when your head is growing dizzy from the heat and your body is busy running with sweat (a harder thing to do when it is plastered in mud).

Here in these echoing halls of tile and marble, with Turkish couches (everything with a decidedly masculine design) he allows himself to believe that what has just happened is only a dream. Or perhaps it happened to some other poor sod, a distant victim in a past case that he pities with a stranger's empathy.

The heat and the drone of Holmes' voice, constant and commonplace lull him to security and finally relaxation.

* * *

"Stir yourself, Watson."

He does as he is bid, to see his friend watching him, a solicitous smile on his face. The Turkish bath is one of the few places Holmes' skin gains some color (the other being when he plies it with make-up). Now its reddened tone tells Watson they have been here long enough.

He stands and looks down in surprise to see his own skin looking more normal, that is to say more like skin, and less like a child's mud-pie.

He falls into place beside Holmes and is pleased to note no irregularity in the pace or the companionable stream of chatter from his friend, quashing fears that a few hours of hell might have jeopardized everything.

His skin rises in uneven bumps as they leave the heat for the cool halls. They pass a man hurrying in the other direction and he takes no notice of either of them, which is further reassuring. Not every eye that lands on him will be pitying.

They reach the plunge pool and Watson stops. Holmes continues, making his way gingerly to the edge, a good swimmer, but feeling his way into the cold with something of a grimace.

Watson smiles at his friend's hesitation and comes to the edge, but there stops again.

The water, only a few inches from his toes, is deep and dark. It moves and writhes like a living thing, stirred by Holmes' antics.

It hadn't occurred to him before, the similarities. He is not afraid of the water, but he can remember how it feels to be deep and dark, without light or air. To be swallowed still living, so that you scream and kick for hours under the crushing weight.

He is trembling, not shaking, it could easily be from the cold. But he knows it isn't.

"Watson."

Holmes is waist deep in the water now, and for the first time since the yard his face is fixed in a concerned scowl.

"Do you remember Roylott, Watson?"

Pity is not what he wants but looking at Holmes is better than looking at the abyss at his feet.

"Yes," his voice at least is calm, puzzled by Holmes question.

"The baboon and the cheetah?

"Quite unforgettable."

"And miss uh…"

"Stoner."

"Yes, Stoner. Brave young lady was she not?"

Watson nods, "She was terrified…Holmes are you losing your recollection of the case?"

Holmes fixes him with a _stare, _one of those that seem to quieten the room.

"Do you remember the snake?"

An involuntary shudder runs down the doctor's spine.

"I hate snakes," Holmes says pointedly as though he is confessing something grave.

"I wouldn't have guessed."

"Well I do." says Holmes with another grimace that may or may not have been from the inches he steps further into the water. "Just jump old fellow."

What—I?"

"Jump," His friend's voice is suddenly sharp, almost commanding and the Doctor's treacherous legs impulsively obey.

He crashes into the water.

This is not the same. Instead of being crushed from above, the water is a gentle pressure on all sides. His head is beautifully clear from the shock of it, and the cool current is soothing to his scrapes and bruises.

And he is not powerless here in the water. It almost makes him feel more powerful. It supports him and he can propel himself easily. His feet touch bottom and one little push is all it takes to send him hurtling for the surface.

He comes up spluttering to see Holmes paddle by with a smirk. "Brave man," he says lightly and paddles on.

* * *

Later they are dry and dressed, and London is finally coming to life as Holmes flags down a hansom.

"Where are we going?" Watson asks, less wearily than before.

"Mrs. Hudson has no doubt made you a feast by now. Most of which you will have to eat. After which you will go to bed." Holmes climbs in taking Watson's arm to pull him up, and knocks his hand on the roof of the cab.

Watson is not fooled. His troubles are not over after one Turkish bath. There is still a trail to conduct. A dodgy doctor to convict, and probably multiple statements to be given to Lestrade.

He will feel apprehensive for days while his bruises and aches slowly fade. And many nights will be sleepless because of the dark.

But he won't have to face it alone.

After a minute or so of silence he says. "Would you mind if…"

Holmes flexes his bow-hand, working out kinks and checking for blisters. "No schubert this time."

"No Wagner either."

Holmes snorts derisively, but smiles.

"Very well, old chap.

* * *

**The end. **

**...of this story at least. **


End file.
